


Green Light

by BlakeBroflovski



Series: Sentiment [5]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Fantasizing, Gen, M/M, Masturbation, Wet Dream, heavy introspective bullshit, part of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:18:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlakeBroflovski/pseuds/BlakeBroflovski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion piece intended to fit between chapters 14 and 15 of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/983204">It's Funny Because Eren Can't Read</a>.</p><p>
  <em>"No matter what kind of wisdom dictates the option you should pick, no one will be able to tell if it's right or wrong until you arrive at some sort of outcome resulting from your choice. The only thing we're allowed to do is to believe we won't regret the choice we made."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Light

**Author's Note:**

> "I'm falling more and more into you." [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e6HQSh9w-kY)]
> 
> Since this is a one-shot, it is considered complete, though the story arc is ongoing and expands beyond it. Be sure to bookmark the [whole series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/57837) if you'd like to be kept up to speed with updates for the entire arc.

Sometimes you forget you're surrounded by teenagers, and you hate being reminded.

Other times it's not so bad, though.  He talks in his sleep, the occasional unintelligible murmur tumbling from gummed-up lips in between the broken snorts of his gentle snoring.  His head had twitched on your shoulder, hands fluttering and clenching over your skin, and once or twice, his leg had jerked as though someone were scratching his belly.  You'd petted his hair instead.  He had curled up around your side and wrapped his skinny limbs around you so intensively that you'd wondered if he'd be able to untangle himself from you when he woke.

You hadn't exaggerated when you'd said he sleeps like a dog.

He's doing it again, snoring evenly, his fingers rippling in yours and his head jumping across the back of your neck, his body curling around you as if attempting to wrap you up like a snail in the shell of his form, but this time, you want to turn around and punch him in the kidney.

It hasn't been ten seconds since he released the tender crook of your neck from between his teeth, and he is already out like a fucking candle.

"You have got to be kidding me," you gripe to the wall, but he's not; you've learned that Eren starts snoring the instant he's out and stops the moment he wakes, and you don't think he's sufficiently aware of it to fake it.

Not that you'd blame him.  Things got pretty out of hand a couple times this evening, and you wouldn't have faulted him for hiding from your reaction the moment his needs had been fulfilled.  You probably would do the same, if your roles were reversed.

You're sure he's not, though, because his snores are the same as always — a faint buzzing, like the faraway motors of a factory.  It's not so obnoxious that you can't tune it out, and in fact, having the sounds of life near you brings a comfort and calm you hadn't expected.  The tranquility had made it no easier to fall asleep, your body too thoroughly trained to be at constant alert from an entire lifetime of sleeping in drainage pipes and caverns and underground black market trade passages, but you'd appreciated his presence just the same.

It had taken you nearly two hours to fall asleep and you'd woken up nearly an hour before he did, but that's your norm, so you don't think him responsible.

You do, however, think him completely responsible and more than a little bit of a _fucking asshole_ for grinding his leg between yours until your dick was so hard you could bludgeon titans with it and then falling asleep instantaneously and leaving you with a painfully aching erection that would cripple you for at least a day if left untouched.

Fucking _teenagers_.

You wish you could say you remember feeling that immortal once, but you don't.  You'd never had the luxury of indiscriminate fucking, the option to either cave to your whims with immediate gratification or to ignore them and see them fly out the window of your active thought process without consequence.  You're sure you could've had boundless opportunity to fuck whoever you wanted whenever you wanted, because in retrospect there were more than enough people who wanted to fuck you, but between your intense aversion to filth and your unshakable focus on every task at hand, you'd rarely had the drive or the desire to take anyone up on it.

You know _how_ — you'd born witness to enough shady deals sealed over a day cot or the long end of a desk to have memorized the formula for any and all body combinations — but you'd had little experience with employing it yourself.

You can't even remember if you've had _any_ , actually.  You seem to recall it happening at least once among companions during drunken riots, but you can't be sure if you'd simply dreamed any or all of those encounters.

Carefully, and with a fair bit of grumbling over his hands snapping into place every time you let them go, you manage to extricate yourself from the increasingly clingy spiderweb of Eren's sleep clutches and slide out of the bed.

Your footsteps to the bathroom are not delicate, but the rustle of your underwear hitting the floor is.

You try to ignore your reflection as you take your erection into your palm, but your eyes are drawn to the dark spot on the bend of your neck, painted black on your blue-glowing skin in the moonlight.

You lift a hand to tickle a fingertip over the spot, and although it's nothing compared to the feeling of his mouth on your skin, the sensation is enough to remind you of everything you'd felt in that moment and everything you'd wanted to do.

You imagine twisting in his arms, pushing him over and pinning him to the mattress, and biting a line along his collarbone, drawing the same noises from him that he'd pulled from you, and your hand begins to slide over your length.

You wonder what sounds he would make if you were to slip a hand into his briefs and stroke him to the edge of climax.

Your fingers graze down your chest and stomach to tickle the soft flesh of your inner thigh.

You imagine the kinds of noises he'd make as you press fingers into him, gentle and lenient of his limits as you push deeper and deeper.  He would throw an arm over his face and hide his eyes in the crook of his elbow, gasping and choking out dry groans as you work him wider and help him relax.  His gasps would give way to high, breathless cries as you light upon his prostate and flick your fingertips over it, his hips rolling into your touches.

You're rocking into the steady movements of your own loose fist, and your wandering fingertips flutter over your perineum, settling behind your balls and tracing slow patterns that make your thighs seize and twitch.  Your tugging drags your foreskin over the head, and with a stuttering sigh, you tighten your grip on your shaft.

You wonder what sounds he would make as you grip the back of his thighs and push yourself into him, enveloping your length in his soft heat.  Would he cry out, shriek your name to the ceiling, beg for more?  Or would he lose his breath entirely, his mouth gaping for air that won't come?  His eyes would roll back, his hands scrabbling at your arms, his ankles locking around you, and as you pull him onto your lap and angle your hips to bump his prostate with each thrust, his body would arch under your hands.

_He's fift—_

You stop the thought and shove it into its corner of shame, quickening the jerk of your hand and massaging the pad of your thumb into the septum of your balls.

You're not thinking about his age, or his experience, or his naiveté or anything but his phantom screams and the ghost of his cheeks slapping your thighs as you grip him by the hip bones and fuck him into the mattress.

You want to see him reach orgasm, want to see the faces he makes and want to hear him lose his breath as his body pings into contractions and his thighs tremble around your waist.  You refuse to acknowledge that there would be cleanup, and you think only about how you want to see that spill of white run over the nebulous ripples of his stomach and into his navel like icing over a confectionary.  You want to hear him shriek and beg for relief as you push further, move faster, take him past his edge into overstimulation because you're _so close, hold on sweetheart just a little more, almost—_

With a groan, you reach your peak, and you lean on the countertop for support as you pour your release into the sink.  Your dick spasms in your hand, and you gingerly pump it empty, pressing the last of it from your body like coaxing the last bits of toothpaste from the tube.

For a moment, you stand there in stillness, collecting your wits and your breath.

Then you wash your hands for sixty seconds straight, and after that, you get the vinegar.

In the time it takes you to retrieve it and move back to the sink, the thought you've shoved aside rears its head again.

_He's fifteen._

You know, okay?  You fucking know.  He's less than half your age, and even though he's been a legal adult for three years, even though you were doing far worse things at fifteen, part of you can't help but see part of him as a child.

It's partially because of the uneven stretch of his limbs, the unbalanced growth of his body indicating he's not yet finished developing, even though you were at his age.  More than that, though, it's especially present in the reverent way he watches you — his eyes take on a light like a child watching his idol, whether he's smiling at you during banter or trying to make you look at him, and that worshipful awe shaves at least another five years off the already considerable gap between you.

_He's fifteen and you're fantasizing about fucking him._

It's not _just_ the sexual frustration, though — it's that you've known, try as you have to deceive yourself, that since the moment you met him at the gates of Trost, you've been fascinated with him.  If his abilities alone didn't attract you enough, his fire does, his sheer inability to take injustice lying down.  When it comes down to the wire, he makes his own rules, and that's a sort of self-preservation and tenacity you can't help but admire.  You know it so well from yourself, after all, and your relief that you're not alone in feeling so terminally angry had mingled with the ache of needing to save this beautiful boy from turning into a duplicate of you.

So you had known that, yeah, you've got quite a soft spot for him.

It's just that you'd never actually intended for it to go anywhere.

You pour vinegar into the sink basin until it overwhelms the reek of semen.

You hadn't known until you'd gotten your hands on his file that he was the Shinganshina doctor's boy, and that knowledge had come with its own set of attachments and fondness.  Your past experience with him as a small boy, limited as it is, should have cemented the realms of your attachment enough to deter you from developing any sort of physical desires for him.

Clearly, it has not.

You want to blame him — to say that you wouldn't have grown sexually interested in him if he hadn't started fawning over you first and put the idea in your head — but you're very well aware that your lust for him sparked the moment he'd growled out his intent on the Corps.

Up to that point, you'd been intrigued.

After that, you'd been attracted.

The flattery and fucking cuteness of his overt infatuation and veneration of you has intensified your attraction, certainly, but they had not been the cause of it.  Much as you want to blame him, to wave away the notion that you've been attracted to him all along, you can't deny that though you wanted to see him as an unfortunately helpful nuisance, you've always been quite fond of him.

You'd been plenty attracted to him on the day of your arrival, even, although you refused to admit it to yourself.

But of course, your perpetual tendency to keep everyone at a significant distance in all regards had come back to bite you hard in the ass, and despite wanting to bring him closer, you'd been unable to make basic conversation without sounding completely ridiculous.  Trees, is that really all you could think to talk about?  You're still kicking yourself over how stupid you'd sounded, and it leads you to kick yourself over having been so cold and standoffish toward him in his youth because maybe if you'd been friendlier with him then, you would've been better able to talk to him now.

You'd attempted to punish him for existing in that enticing way of his, but that had come back to bite you too, because you'd felt bad enough about it to offer him private tutoring.

You suppose it doesn't really matter, though, because he's still madly in love with you and he's still near-naked in your bed.

You scrub the wash cloth more vigorously into the sink, your breath heaving out in a rush.

You've never wanted a person this way.

You've never had a strong desire for anyone at all, but with Eren, it's more than just wanting a decent sex partner.  He's beautiful in a purely physical sense, yes, and more so each day than the one before as you become acquainted with the language of his body — his elbows as he stretches them overhead when he's tired and tucks them close to his ribs when he's nervous, the subtle twitches of his mouth that betray miles of emotion, the flick of his eyes toward your arms and your stomach and your ass when he believes you're not paying attention.  And you'd admitted last night that you're so deeply attracted to him one more push from him in the right direction would send you pinning him to the wall and sucking his tongue out of his mouth.

And God, stripping his jacket hadn't been enough; you'd wanted to slip your hands down his pants and stroke him until he couldn't stand.

But you couldn't, because—

_He's fifteen._

He's so young and dumb, like a duck imprinting on its mother, and a horribly corrupt person like you should be the last one to lay your hands on him.

He _loves_ you, though.

He fucking _loves_ you and you have a really, really hard time ignoring the flattery alone, disregarding all your own feelings.

Because he's cute and fuckable and lovely, yes, but you've been stunned to slowly realize and accept that your feelings for him transcend the sexual into the surprisingly domestic.

You shouldn't be confused by this, since you've craved his company and attention as long as you've been working in close quarters with him, while your sexual preconceptions of him should've been rather low since you have only the foggiest idea how good a sex partner he would be, and even that much was just given to you a few minutes ago.

You lean on your palms for a moment and stare at the dark spot on your reflection's neck.

You'd wanted to tell him to stop, and he'd given you plenty of opportunity — even retracted the offer once your hesitation was made clear — but you'd insisted.  You don't know when you got so stupid as to let him mess around enough to accidentally discover for the both of you that you have a _huge fucking weakness_ for neck kissing, but you'd given yourself permission to say yes, and you kind of can't turn back now.  Not because you don't want to hurt him — though you don't — but mainly because you seriously can't force yourself to say no anymore.

You hadn't known, still don't know, what you'd been thinking when you'd written him that final note, and it had been your ruination.

Part of you fully believes you'd wanted to end the charade.

The emotional gap between you had shrunk with the dissolution of your spatial distance, but you couldn't let yourself do anything more than flirtation via mockery because he's fifteen and he's your ward.  Yet you'd still penned those notes on the toilet, and you'd planned to make him dinner, and yeah, you kind of can't deny at all that you'd set him up for a date.

You'd even worn cologne for the occasion.

You couldn't justify then and you can't justify now why you'd dabbed it on — just in _case_ something happened — but you were sort of hoping something _would_ happen, that he'd push you to a boundary you wouldn't be able to help but cross.

He didn't, though.

He took too long, long enough for your brain to remember,

_He's fucking fifteen._

Yeah, you know.

You know.

You attempt to tell yourself _but I hadn't intended for anything physical to happen_ , but you had, you know perfectly well that you had, and in the part of your mind you want to break the neck of and strangle, you yearn for the probably mind-blowing sex you've missed in favor of jacking off alone into the sink like the lonely old man you are.

When you're satisfied that ten minutes of scrubbing the entire vanity, your crotch, and your hands several times is sufficient, you blot yourself dry and deposit your used boxer-briefs in the hamper.

You pull out a fresh pair from the wardrobe on his side of the bed, and you slide back in beside him, arranging his arms around you.  He wastes no time replacing his curled form around you, clutching your waist with a frantic urgency, his fingers kneading your chest, but he keeps snoring away.

Even in the face of all you've admitted, all the thoughts you've dragged up and parsed through, all that you've let him do, you still don't know what you should do next.

Your eyes close, and with a sigh so heavy it makes you shiver, you let go.

You've never been in a Proper Relationship before, and you're certain that any attempt on your part will end in fiery disaster.  It's not unthinkable for you that a large part of your hesitation stems from the knowledge that you couldn't stand the thought of hurting him.

And that's why you'll do everything in your power to not do so.

Clearly, this desire to be his and have him be yours isn't going away, and despite your squeamishness at the prospect of bodily fluids and insufficient hygiene and severe distractions and _interpersonal interaction_ , fighting it feels like using one finger to stop a boulder from sliding down a mountain.

So you let go, and you hug his arms around you, nestling back against his warmth.

And wow, he is _really_ warm.  Your brow furrows.  He's got far less muscle mass than you — you're pretty sure you outweigh him, actually, despite the height difference — he shouldn't be this much warmer than you.

Then, with the jerkiness of sleep motion, his hips rock into you, and you realize why.

You're sort of amused that the amount of boners you've noticed him developing in your presence exceeds the count of one, and you allow yourself a smirk.

He ruts against you again and again, his movements stuttering and punctuated with muffled grunts, and you're caught on a strange border between uncontrollable amusement and mild discomfort that he's humping you like a dog in his fucking sleep.  In the midst of his snoring and whining, your name slips from his mouth.  You elbow him gently and whisper for him to knock it off, but you're only half serious, the other part of you curious to see how long he'll keep it up and what else he'll do.

His body is quick to supply the answer as it tenses around you, his snores faltering as his breath catches, and as his clothed erection twitches against your ass, you feel an unmistakable patch of heat swell in his underwear.

Your mild discomfort shifts abruptly to abject horror.

"Oh you have got to be KIDDING ME," you growl, already twisting in his grip to elbow him hard in the ribs.  "Oi!  Wake the fuck up."

Sometimes you forget you're surrounded by teenagers.

You fucking hate being reminded.

**Author's Note:**

> **_[continue to chapter 15 ⇒](http://archiveofourown.org/works/983204/chapters/2125661) _ **


End file.
